


Drawn Desires

by CherryJacks



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Flirting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nude Modeling, Nudity, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7084993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryJacks/pseuds/CherryJacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Sycamore needs to take a break! His assistants think a hobby would help get him out of the lab. Perhaps taking an art class at the museum could do the Professor some good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn Desires

**Author's Note:**

> Saw this headcanon Tumblr and got inspired:
> 
> pkmntrainerfluke:  
> Okay but Lysandre is totally the type of guy who’s so proud of his physique, so he’d volunteer to be a nude model for an art class to show off the beauty of the human body or something like that. And those art classes could be held in the Lumiose Museum, where a certain professor was forced to attend because his assistants are telling him he spends too much time working and should get a hobby.

_"You are overworking yourself!"_

_"Take a break."_

_"You are going to burn yourself out at this rate."_

Professor Sycamore was used to the usual concerns of his assistants. Each one presented their own case as to why he needed to take a break away from the lab. A break!? He couldn't possibly imagine stepping away from his lab. "The research!" He would proclaim, "Just let me run this last scan and I'll turn in for the night."

Then he would run another and another and another and another...

It was Sophie that found him slumped over his desk, she normally did. The look on her face suggested that she was irritated, but her actions with her boss were soft and careful. Stirring just enough to mumble about the late night, Sophie assisted the Professor out of his office and onto the nearest couch in the building.

The couch was worn from many nights of his use, but the wear was perfect for cradling his body. Sophie carefully removed his shoes, storing them under the nearby coffee table, and tucked a soft blanket around his shoulders.

There was a muffled "thank you" that the Professor managed before he was thoroughly fast asleep.

~*~

He awoke slowly and groggily, but found that his back had been spared from his usual abuse by remaining at his desk. _"Bless you, Sophie."_ He thought as he rose to sit on the couch properly. Only a couple joints were in need of popping and by the sound of his absolutely blissful sigh, the new looseness in his back was heavenly.

"Good afternoon, Professor." Came Sophie's voice. It wasn't startling, but Sycamore couldn't lie that he was surprised to see her sitting nearby. She eyed him from behind her frames and returned to thumbing through a folder. Each page she paused on thoughtfully before continuing to the next.

"Afternoon?" It was a bit of a mixture of both greeting and question on his part. If it was already that far in the day then the lab had been running without him for hours. Surely there was something that required his immediate attention.

Sophie was quick to read the slight panic in his features, "Everything is fine. All the staff knows what to do, you've taught them all well."

She paused on another page and tapped her nail against it as though it held her next sentence, at the very least it prompted it.

"The other assistants and I have been talking..."

Immediately Sycamore was prepared for the usual speech, he would have been surprised if it didn't occur, "I know, I know. I need a break-"

"A hobby." Sophie cut in, "We all think that you need to take up a hobby." A small smile swept her lips as she looked at the pages on her lap. It was then it finally dawned on Sycamore what she was looking through. His face reddened slightly, embarrassed was one word for how he felt. What she held was none other than his collection of sketches. Drawings that ranged from plants to pokemon to human subjects that didn't mind his pencil working to immortalize them on paper.

"You are such a gifted artist." There was true admiration in her voice, "I think that you should go out and draw like you used to. It might do you some good."

Sycamore was still working through his embarrassment at his assistant finding his old collection. He wasn't angry at her for it, far from it in fact, but some of the subject matter he tackled verged on the plane of what could be considered lewd. He once struggled with drawing the human form. So in his younger days before the lab became a full time investment, he sought out classes to practice. Quite often the human volunteers wore minimal to nothing, how else to capture each curve and unique feature present.

"I don't know..." Sycamore began, "I just don't have the time."

Sophie shook her head, "Yes you do! In fact there is a class being held at the Lumiose Museum of Art and you are signed up."

When the words finally sank in, the Professor sprung to his feet in a fit of panic, "Now hold on now-"

"Augustine," Sophie returned calmly, "You need this and you know it." She stood and placed the folder in his grasp, "The lab will be fine, but it will be better with you at your best."

She left him to ponder her words. They sank in deep as he fell back against the couch cushions. They were right of course, he needed to be at his best. A break wouldn't hurt. Memories came rushing back once he began to flip through the drawings himself. Did he once fancy himself an artist? At the very least he remembered how at peace he once felt quietly drawing a subject. With a sigh he rose to his feet and reclaimed his shoes. If he was already signed up for the classes, he would need to know what time they started.

~*~

The class was scheduled for the evening and once Sycamore's assistants could finally assure him that the lab would be fine, he made his way down the sidewalk. The trip wasn't long and the cool air was already doing him some good. He could smell coffee and confectionaries as he passed by tiny, cluttered cafes. His stomach came alive and demanded attention. His watch showed that he still had plenty of time so after a wait in line and some casual conversation with nearby patrons, Sycamore left with his preferred variety of éclair. He was careful while he walked to not make a mess of himself.

The museum loomed ahead looking just as grand and bright as during usual visiting hours, save a few less bodies wandering its halls. Sycamore clutched his shoulder bag that held one of his sketchbooks. It had been ages since he even sat in such a class. Something stirred inside him while he passed through the decorative doorway and entered the bright white that bounced light from the building's tall walls. All the more to make the art that was presented draw a visitor's eye. He felt a sense of nervousness. Only to become more prevalent with each new face he found also waiting for the same class. It wasn't until the modest group of students was allowed into the room that was setup for the evening's class that a new feeling rose. With his sketchbook now out in front of him along with sharp pencils and soft eraser, he felt excitement.

 The instructor spoke, but Sycamore found himself choosing instead to look around the space. The class was a good mix of people of all ages, something that helped him the feel more at ease. They sat in a circle, a raised platform in the center. For some reason the thought hadn't crossed his mind that someone would be standing in the center to be the subject of their sketch. Would it be the instructor, he wondered.

They continued to speak, words lost on the Professor while he continued to search for who they could have possibly been drawing. The instructor, he quickly decided, was probably not going to be their model. Not for any malicious reason was this decided other than for the fact that it looked like they had brought their own supplies to join the class in drawing.

So Sycamore continued to peer around the room until his eyes settled on a man leaning gracefully against a corner. Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure how the red hair was missed when presented against the white walls that dominated the space. His eyes widened possibly far too much when he saw the robe that covered his body. Not a long robe by any means, it simply swept over his thighs above his knees and left the rest of his shapely legs exposed to the Professor's intruding gaze. The sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and arms crossed across a perfectly broad chest. Sycamore found himself settling on the patch of skin that was showing where the robe crossed his chest and left it open for sight. "Soft and perfectly groomed." His mind automatically offered. What little hair he allowed to remain was completely tamed. His face warmed when the model's sight met his. Those eyes, so blue, he was sure they saw right through him.

Sycamore busied himself with adjusting his seat, his pencils moved to one side of his sketchbook only to be moved again. All of it done to seem like he was busy. Much too busy to have been ogling the man in the corner that appeared to be the class's volunteer model. He chanced another look. Silly perhaps, wouldn't he be allowed to gaze on him fully once he was on the center platform? The redhead wasn't looking his way to his relief and he was free to look without perceived judgment. The man's arms tensed and Sycamore could hardly believe or be mistaken, he flexed. Any heat that was already present on his cheeks became double, triple, once those blue eyes caught him at the side of his vision and a sneaky smile appeared on his lips.

It was only the fact that the Professor wasn't in a room alone that kept him from jumping onto his feet and rushing out to hide his flustered state. His heart beat out a drumbeat and his eyes locked on the blank page ahead of him. That cheeky grin, such a grin looked so out of place on such a person. He exuded an elegance that Sycamore couldn't believe actually existed in real living beings. His appearance gave off an aura of importance, his form that of one who might call themselves someone of esteemed heritage.

"Please welcome Monsieur Lysandre." The instructor's voice piped up.

Once the name was called, the class all turned their attention to the man known as Lysandre. He walked with full confidence to the center platform, only pausing to lean down to listen to the instructor speak to him privately. A comedic sight almost really. He was so tall that he had to lean nearly completely in half for the instructor to reach his ear. At least Sycamore thought so when he worked up the nerve to look up from his page. Immediately his eyes locked on Lysandre's hands that grasped the open edge of his robe.

"Oh sweet Arceus." He breathed.

He knew what was going to occur but he wasn't even the least bit prepared. That man, Lysandre. That man that he had been sinfully admiring for his unbelievably handsome features would soon tug down the robe and reveal the rest of his body to him. Not just to him, Sycamore needed to abolish that thought that invaded. Lysandre was simply a volunteer that was allowing his form to be used for the sake of art. It didn't change the fact that Sycamore wasn't quite able to pull himself together. He fidgeted in his chair and prayed that nobody else around him noticed his mannerisms. No, it would seem that Lysandre was far too interesting of a sight for anyone in the room to notice one student wanting to faint at the idea of seeing such delightful exposed skin.

Later, Sycamore might admit that he was possibly being dramatic in what feelings consumed him, but it didn't matter to him. In that one moment he wanted nothing more than to thank Sophie profusely for signing him up for the class. Even though there were other students around him, they disappeared around him until the space only held him and Lysandre.

That, he would have to say beautiful, man stood on a pedestal with robe hanging off his creamy, pale shoulders. If he stood still he seemed like nothing more than a carved statue of marble. He was carved marble paired with flickering flames like a mane that decorated his crown and jaw, eyes set with topaz.

Were those eyes looking at him? He wanted to imagine so and for that moment he couldn't tear his own eyes away. They were locked firmly with no hope of gaining a key, Sycamore didn't want one anyway. No matter how hot his face grew or how red he was sure it became, he couldn't look away. Once Lysandre's mouth twitched with that same smirk from before, Sycamore was positive that the man knew his power.

Even though the act of disrobing was only a moment, it felt so much longer in Sycamore's mind. He followed the curve of his neck down to well defined pectorals that swelled with strength and dedicated training. His core rippled and dipped with each muscle, his hips and legs matching his level of care he gave his higher muscle groups. Hair as bright as the mane on his head followed a very precise path down the center of his body. Past the navel he followed it, marveling at how this man found the time to groom himself to such perfection.

A couple deep breaths were needed to steady himself, but even with that he squeezed his legs together, crossing them to hide how much Lysandre's body affected him. It was just further embarrassment, at least the embarrassment made the physical signs of his arousal quickly fade.

The more Sycamore stared, the more he felt filthy for doing so. Lysandre, all he knew about him was a name, that he volunteered as an art model, and now a body. Even though he knew it was wrong, he really wanted the chance to know that body more.

Lysandre sat on an offered stool. The pose, all things considered, was modest. Sycamore would mentally weep that his groin was now hidden from his prying sight, another thing he scolded himself for. Before it began to seem like he only attended the class to stare, he finally claimed his pencil and began to rough out Lysandre's pose.

Sycamore felt rusty, any muscle memory not coming in to rescue him. Yet, he continued to try. His pencil worked frantically and soon only the sounds of pencils etching paper could be heard in the space. Eventually his sight only flicked up to memorize a detail before he was invested in the page again.

His face was now cooled and his mind fairly clear from the thoughts that bombarded him only a moment ago. Not that he didn't continue to take note of how attractive his subject was. Perhaps that was why he was so invested in his page. Realistically, he would most likely never see Lysandre again. That moment might have been his only chance to capture such a person on paper. His eyes flicked up again to capture the subtle details of his face, only to find his gaze returned. It would seem that Lysandre wished to watch him as well. This time Sycamore was certain he wasn't just being hopeful, Lysandre only appeared to be watching him. He could feel pressure building now that he knew Lysandre was watching him draw. A couple experimental looks between marks continued to prove that fact to be true.

 The Professor worked out the finer details of Lysandre's face and moved on to perfect his body. With a soft smile he made certain his subject could see how lovingly he moved the pencil over the picture's drawn chest. He darkened the line that formed his trim waist and his fingertips darkened smudging the lines into smooth shadows. A few marks and his fingers would return, this time on the thighs. He followed the drawn path of exposed inner thigh that Lysandre was willing to share. Perhaps, Sycamore hoped, if he pushed on the thighs more, Lysandre would spread his further to allow Sycamore's hands to be free to wander on the new drawn lines that would be needed.  

If Sycamore wasn't sure if Lysandre knew what he was doing, the sudden shifting on the seat and soft pink that brushed his ivory skin proved that the Professor had not gone without notice. Any fear Sycamore had, or rather any shame he felt about his lusting thoughts he indulged himself in regarding the man, began to slip away the more Lysandre reacted positively. Just a bit of color, more shifting, perhaps his mind was also filling with delightfully impure thoughts regarding the artist that was drawing his body. What a thought! Sycamore only wished he could read Lysandre's mind. He wondered if Lysandre could read his own. His own thoughts were quite open for him to pick out. Sycamore's fingertips still tracing a finished sketch, touching all the places that he wished to touch in real life.

If the Professor's mind was clearer, he would have acknowledged how strange it was to be flirting in such a way. Yet, it was working and he had no desire to question it. As good as it was, eventually the class came to an end. Lysandre reclaimed his robe and was soon covered. A tragedy really, but Sycamore was sure he would never forget a single detail of his body. The drawing was carefully shut away inside his sketchbook. While not as wonderful as the real model it depicted, Sycamore was actually proud of what he created. At the very least no matter what came of the class, he could be comforted by the fact that he could still create something to be proud of.

Supplies were bagged away and fellow students bid good night to the instructor, many excitedly whispered to each other about returning for another class. Sycamore thought that he might as well, but his first priority was to thank Lysandre for being such a wonderful subject to draw. Except, as Sycamore grabbed his bag from the floor and whirled around, Lysandre was nowhere to be seen. It was disappointing to say the least. The Professor had high hopes that they could have spoke or that he could have landed a date. What a story he could have told his assistants the following morning.

_"Had a great time last night, flirted with the naked model and now we are going out for a lunch date!"_

Sycamore took his time exiting the museum. He wandered the main floor for as long as he could reason, observing paintings he strolled past. Part of him still hoped that Lysandre would still be there. Perhaps gathering his own belongings before he left for the night. As funny the thought was, Sycamore was sure Lysandre didn't arrive at the museum in nothing but a robe. Unfortunately he couldn't wait much longer, the museum was closing and it was clear he was loitering.

Out on the side walk he stood under a nearby streetlamp. His hand twitched as the thought hit him to call a cab. The walk back to the lab wasn't that far, but wasn't sure he wanted to make the walk so late. Instead of raising his hand to hail a cab he rubbed his palms together to warm them, blowing out puffs of hot air from his lips and watching the smoke-like plumes disappear above his head. It was right as he had decided that the cab fare wasn't worth it, he heard the polite clearing of a throat and a deep voice that was as smooth and lovely as he had hoped.

"I was going to ask you for a cigarette, but I was mistaken."

Lysandre appeared from the museum's doors. A much different sight in so many clothes. Of course while dressed in a fine tailored jacket and matching pants, he looked just as handsome.  He strolled closer, joining Sycamore under the street lamp. His hand was brought forth, now covered with a fingerless glove, "We haven't been formally introduced, I believe you know who I am. You are?"

It was strange being able to touch him finally, though it almost figured that even that touch was obstructed slightly. Even then, Sycamore was nearly ashamed by how strong of a reaction he felt. The touch, less of a handshake and more of an awkward grasping of hands, send gentle tingles down his spine.

"My name is Augustine Sycamore, but you can just call me Augustine." He managed to maintain his ability to form words even though Lysandre's presence could almost rob them right out of his mouth.

_"Please just call me Augustine."_ He hoped his squeezing fingers delivered that message. With how backwards their introduction had been, he figured being on a first name basis was just appropriate. Far more appropriate than what they did in the class. In hindsight it was unbelievably inappropriate, such a thing that should not have been done with so many people around them. Though now it was just them standing alone together under a streetlamp. Any worry of offending an onlooker was no longer an issue. Even with Lysandre now standing right in front of him, quite clear in his interest in conversing with him, Augustine found his confidence shrinking.

"Would you like to share a cab?"

The question caught Augustine off guard, but he was thankful that it permeated the awkward silence that threatened to loom, "Oui, I don't have far to go however..."

"I don't mind." Lysandre replied and proceeded to hail a cab.

The car pulled up and Lysandre opened the door to allow Augustine to enter first. There was a voiceless thank you and the return of heat on his cheeks once he felt Lysandre's hand press against his back to guide him. He soon followed and sat near. His tall stature making it seem like the seat was uncomfortable for him. If it was, he didn't complain. Even with his mane of hair brushing the ceiling, he acted like he didn't notice.

"Could I see it?" Lysandre suddenly asked once the vehicle began its drive, "The picture you drew." He clarified further.

"Of course!" Augustine nearly squeaked, he really had grown far too nervous now that they were actually speaking. How on earth he could so shamelessly flirt in such suggestive ways and with a stranger no less, but get flustered later with the same person was beyond him. He brought out his sketchbook and flipped the pages until the picture in question was found.

Lysandre slid across the seat to get closer, their legs and shoulders now touching. The contact wasn't unwanted, but felt like it belonged to a pair of people that knew each other far more than they did. Yet, Augustine watched the way Lysandre's face lit up at the piece he drew, he watched his fingers gently hover over the page and admire his pencil marks. They truthfully knew very little about each other, a fact that Augustine hoped that could be changed. Despite all that he felt he could read Lysandre in some small way, perhaps spending the time to carefully draw his form gifted him some insight. He couldn't possibly know for sure.

"This is incredibly skilled." Lysandre finally remarked. His hand brushed Augustine's knee in a way that could have been accidental, "I would love to see what else you could do, perhaps-"

The cab came to a stop in front of Sycamore Labs and their contact suddenly broke like a trance was lifted. Augustine offered to pay his part of the fare, "Non, I got it." Lysandre quickly voiced, "I would have come this way anyway." He reached into his pocket, a bit of a struggle with his legs folded so high, pulled out a folded slip of paper and pressed it into Augustine's palm, "I suppose I must wish you a good night," He paused and looked out at the laboratory from his window, "Until we meet again, _Professor_."

It was depressing in some way for Augustine to step out of the cab, only to turn and watch the same vehicle he shared with Lysandre drive away. All in all though, the evening out had been enjoyable. It was fitting in a way to be called "Professor" again,  as it was time for him to step back into that role. He wasn't upset about it, but for a while just being himself without the title was nice. He fished out his keys and unlocked the front door. The assistants did a good job, just as always, cleaning up and locking up the building.

"Ah, yes!" He suddenly declared once he remembered the slip of paper Lysandre left with him. While he called the lift, he unfolded the page. Immediately, a smile formed on his lips at the sight of a set of numbers, below there appeared to be a hastily written message.

_"I would like to be able to speak with you in the future, I hope that you will choose to call. Perhaps we could make arrangements in the future for a private art class."_

The smile Augustine was sporting refused to fade even when he took the lift up to his apartment and began to get ready for bed. The grin remained as he washed his face with a wash cloth and he almost couldn't brush his teeth through sudden giddy giggles. The last line of the note came back into mind.

_"Private art class."_

The smile grew wider and he felt like he could nearly fly around his apartment from joy. Professor Sycamore thought he could take more time off from the lab for such a thing. Private lessons would be important after all. His grin grew mischievous. The sketchbook was claimed from the confides of his bag and the picture he drew of Lysandre in his full, sinful glory filled his vision. Perhaps, he thought while he retired to his bedroom with the picture in hand, he wouldn't quite go to sleep right away.


End file.
